


follow you through the dark

by Lizzen



Category: Catch and Kill RPF, Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Phone Sex, Validation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23163592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: It’s the morning of Wednesday, March 11, 2020. Ronan is paralyzed by the moment and its gravity. Fortunately, Jon knows exactly what he needs.
Relationships: Ronan Farrow/Jon Lovett
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	follow you through the dark

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. This is all fake. RPF is fake!!!!

It’s the morning of Wednesday, March 11, 2020. It’s 53 degrees in New York City. Tomorrow, it will be cloudy, colder, and rainy. But today, sunlight is streaming through the windows. 

Ronan isn’t outside enjoying the fine weather, isn’t staring out his penthouse apartment at how lovely the world looks today. He is staring at his phone’s lock screen. There’s a text alert and two minutes after it: a news alert. Behind the alerts is a picture of Pundit asleep on the new couch in LA. 

He reads the alerts again. 

From Ivy, his friend on Illuzzi’s team: **23**

From _The Washington Post_: **Harvey Weinstein sentenced to 23 years in prison for sexually assaulting two women in New York**

And then it builds. Alerts and buzzes, rapid fire on his phone. He quickly flips to _do not disturb_, just to keep the phone from buzzing. Watches the messages stream in. Reads the words “it’s done” and “thank god” and “may he rot in there” and “on to LA!” and “you did this” and “thank you” and “thank you” and “thank you” and--

He swallows, light headed. As if he’s had too much champagne and someone’s asked him a nuanced question, a thousand cameras in his face. 

There’s always been a plan for his response. A plan for what he’ll say publicly -- his reaction to five years or 29 years, or anywhere in between. Stick to the plan, he thinks.

But see--

If he’s honest, he expected an acquittal. If he’s honest, he expected the minimum sentence. If he’s honest, he expected nothing to happen on October 10, 2017, when the story went live. 

This, this is unprecedented.

He knows, without question, that Harvey is only one man in a vile sea of powerful men with teflon untouchability. The judge in New York had said it: “This trial is not a referendum on sexual harassment, on women’s rights.” Ronan himself had said it, trying to soothe others in case of the inevitable happy ending for this man, this charybdis. He who had consumed and spat out so many. A gaping, awful maw. 

(“you said he was funny,” whitney speaks into the mic, and ronan relives the moment again. the sound of harvey’s voice on the phone and the taste of bile in his mouth and david remnick’s concerned expression)

He knows, without question, that this sentencing is an incredible moment. Feels gratitude tenfold for the bravery of his sources and countless others. 

The gravity of it, what it is and what it means, is pulling at him like an event horizon would. To an unknowable future. 

His jaw is tight and his heart a drum. But his skin and muscle and bone are brittle; a paralysis setting in from shock and awe. He’s not certain how to react, despite the prepared messages and talking points and scheduled interviews and flight to LA. In this moment, in the here and now, he’s made of ice and slipping through a black void. 

It’s done. And his role in it is unmistakable. 

The phone rings and he jumps. It’s set to only allow three calls in right now. His mom, Dylan, and—

“Ronan,” he hears Jonathan say over the phone, a second after he pushes the green button. It’s the voice he loves. A beautiful sound. “I--”

“Hi,” he says, feeling stupid, feeling like his brain is made of straw. “I don’t know what to do.”

He can hear Jonathan let out a breath of air, like he’s been holding it. Like he’s preparing for something. “Ronan, are you at home?” And a pause. “Alone?”

“Yes?”

“I want you to get your hand on your dick right now.” Serious, direct.

“Jonathan, I--”

“Don’t speak. Do it right now.”

Ronan puts him on speaker, complies. Listens as Jonathan continues: “I want you to know that I love you. But you gotta get it nice and slick now. Nothing too fancy, just get to work. And I want it noisy, and I want to hear you do it.”

They’ve had plenty of phone sex, _Jesus_, so much of it over the years. This feels different. 

“You’ve got a whirlwind today, and I need you taken care of,” Jonathan says, unusually stern. 

His heart seems to shift a little, an ache that he’s been burying emerges. A longing for this-- this attention. Command. “God, I wish you were here,” Ronan says. “I miss your mouth.”

“I know, baby. And it’s all yours. I want every inch of you in my mouth next time. At the door.”

Ronan’s grip on his dick tightens and he sighs out. “After you wash your hands,” he says, needling. 

“Don’t spoil it,” Jonathan says. “Are you hard?”

_God_. He is, incredible so. “I need more,” he goads.

A pause. “Remember that time in the hotel.”

“No hotels,” Ronan says, sudden. There’s a layer of sexual do’s and don’ts now. Ever since. It’s not something he likes to dwell on, but certain triggers are hardwired into him now. 

“That time at your mom’s, then.”

“Jonathan.”

“Okay,” and an amused laugh rises before he clears his throat. “Focus. Remember that time I had your dick in my mouth.”

He remembers; it’s hard not to at this point. His hand trembles a little against his skin. 

“Remember it. How you could get it all the way in. Fuck me proper.”

Ronan sucks in air. It’s a good memory. 

“Remember how that felt. Now squeeze.”

He does, and a moan escapes him that is purely indecent. 

“That’s it. Now keep it up, make it really good for you. I want--”

His dick is so hard, and his skin and sinew are coming alive all around him. Everything, everything else is a distant murmur in the dark. The only thing that’s real is this moment; the surge of pleasure racing through him and Jonathan’s voice on the phone. 

“What do you want?,” Ronan says, ragged.

“I want a lot of things. I want to suck kisses down your neck so hard that you can’t leave the house without a scarf. I want to taste your mouth. Kiss you until we’re both stupid from it. Messy kisses, the kind you like best. I want to blow you and eat you out and fuck you till you’re a mess. Till you do anything I say. But right now, right now,” he says, “I want you to hear you come.”

There’s a whine in the back of his throat. “Jonathan,” he says, it’s a plea. 

“You’ve got this, sweetheart. You’ve got me.”

“I’ve got this,” Ronan mimics and begins to move in earnest, his hand pumping his dick quick and efficient. “I’ve got this.”

“Now prove it,” Jonathan orders.

It’s sudden and brief, coming in his empty kitchen over the tile. It shatters his senses, making him dizzy and unsteady. He’s not quite sure if he howled or sighed. All he can hear is Jonathan saying “yes, yes, that’s it, baby, you’ve got this, yes, come on, this is it.”

He closes his eyes and breathes in. Smells sweat and his sex and his body finally relaxes.

“I needed that,” he says quietly, his mind all of a sudden _awake_ and already speeding off to consider messages, talking points, actions. His mind soothed.

“I know,” Jonathan says, the sternness in his voice gone. A jovial and smug sound. “I know you.”

Ronan nods, wordless. Madly in love with this impossible chaos of a man. 

“Now,” Jonathan says. “Go tweet, it’s been _minutes_ and the people need you.”

His heart clenches. “I need you.”

Silence for a moment. Ronan imagines Jonathan leaning against a wall, biting his lip to keep from smiling, keep from saying something _embarrassing_ like--

“I love you, Jonathan,” Ronan says. Meaning it. 

“You’re okay, I guess,” is the reply. “Now clean up and finish up and get an earlier flight out. I gotta figure out if I’m cancelling the show tomorrow or not.”

Ronan squeezes his soft dick just one more time, just for a little shock. “You should. Cancel and I’ll be there early. Four course dinner.”

“Only if my ass is on the menu,” he says. 

“That’s the dessert,” he says. 

He can hear the little sound in Jonathan’s throat, and he smiles. 

Ronan opens his mouth. “Thank you for--”

Jonathan interrupts. “Oh, please. Now go, go! I’m a very important person with very important things to do. Byeeee!” And the call ends. 

A moment later--

From Jonathan L: **Love you too**

Ronan walks to the window. Looks out over New York, his hand against the glass. Breathes in and out. 

Tomorrow, the news cycle will drown out today’s announcement in New York and he’ll be back to his growing story on the Administration’s response to COVID-19 and he’ll be back to combing through leads and picking what interviews to take. Tomorrow, there’s work to do.

Today, he thinks, today he can allow himself a moment of release.

**Author's Note:**

> Jess and Th_esaurus are amazing cheerleaders, thank you. This is my first fic after an incredibly long and dark dry spell and I cried being able to write fanfic again. Fingers crossed that there is more to come in this and other fandoms. <3 Thank you for reading.


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